


Lay Me Down

by InNovaFertAnimus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fluff, Multi, Pre-OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5955868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNovaFertAnimus/pseuds/InNovaFertAnimus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon falls asleep on Illya. Good for him that the Russian is experienced in tucking his partners into bed.</p><p>Written for a kinkmeme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> [Original prompt](https://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=115584)

Black is clearly winning this game although Illya usually matches himself very well. He stares at the board and tries to figure out where he went wrong. His eyes focus on the white bishop, but his mind refuses to come up with the move he laid out a few rounds before. It takes more than twice as long as it should to evaluate the different options of the piece and he still comes up empty. His eyes have started to burn slightly a few minutes ago and he can no longer ignore the strain in his muscles. Continuing makes little sense now. He can still play another game tomorrow.

Gaby already claimed the monstrous bed for herself an hour ago after the short debrief, leaving him and Solo in the living room to wind down. He bets Solo didn’t consider Gaby kicking him out of his own suite because of it. Seriously, nobody ever needs a bed that big, even now that Illya gets to share it with Gaby. Solo deserves it to be stolen from him. He leans a little back on the couch just to notice the warmth against his shoulder. With a small frown he twists his upper body to the side. What he doesn’t expect is Solo to slump against him, eyes shut, expression soft, his half empty glass of Scotch still in his hand.

Illya’s first impulse is to lean away, which only causes the other man to tip further in his direction. He barely manages to catch the glass before it falls from Solo’s grasp. The slight shift in his shoulders when he sets it on the table is enough for Solo to drop all the way. With annoyance and a little wonder Illya looks down at his lap full of American spy, sleeping soundly. Solo was on surveillance last night before they left for the mission, so it makes sense that he’s even more exhausted than Illya or Gaby. Still this is nothing Illya suspected ever seeing. 

Solo is already in his pajamas under the bathrobe he brought from his room. His dark hair is free of any product for once. It’s still slightly damp and surprisingly curly. He probably was too tired to bother with it after the shower. Before he really thinks about it Illya runs one of his hands over it, just light enough not to disturb his partner. It feels… nice. Different than Gaby’s hair, but still nice. He sinks his fingers further in carefully, the strands giving way and curling back again with his movements. Solo doesn’t stir, only relaxes into the touch. Something lets Illya continue the motion without looking too closely at what he’s doing. He can’t figure out why he’s not just shoving the other man off, but he stays where he is. 

His fingers comb through the American’s hair, sorting it and drawing it back from his face. Now that Solo dropped all his acts he looks odd. Not really younger, the exhaustion too clearly written on his face for that, but somehow vulnerable, like he could really get hurt and not just shrug it off with a quip. The bruising on his neck does nothing to help that impression. The guard who tried to choke him ended up with a lot more than a few bruises, Illya made sure of it. It could have been worse. They already had it worse and worse will happen to them in the future. Something uncomfortably heavy settles in Illya’s stomach at that thought. He noticed he became attached to his team, but until now he thought that Gaby is the only one he feels the need to protect. He wonders when Solo snuck into that spot, too. 

He sighs and looks up to the ceiling. It’s not even that uncomfortable, staying like this, but from the way the other man’s spine is twisted he will probably wake up with all kinds of cramps. He should flick him on the forehead and throw him out to find his own bed. Not before teasing him thoroughly for falling asleep on him of course. This could make for a fun week really. His fingers stop the caressing, which causes Solo to mutter something in dismay. For a second his eyelids flutter, but he stays dead to the world. It’s probably the best for now. It’s the first time Illya sees the man rest since they’ve been assigned to the same team. He wonders briefly how much sleep Solo gets in general. By the hour Illya usually gets up Solo already has made breakfast and Illya knows the other man stays out longer than him and Gaby on regular basis. Now that he thinks of it, it’s a small miracle that this didn’t happen before. As much as Illya likes to rile up his partner, it seems unfair to use this against him. Especially if Solo isn’t in the position to defend himself. And petting Solo’s hair is probably worse than him falling asleep on Illya in the first place. 

Illya sighs again. No, waking him is not an option. Carefully he lifts Solo’s torso so he can slip out under him. He eyes the couch now solely occupied by his partner. It’s barely large enough for spending the night. His legs are still dangling off in the middle from where he was sitting upright before and there is no space to put them up propertly. Illya will have to think of something different. He crouches next to his partner to remove his shoes, just some slippers for crossing the halls. Every few seconds he checks for any reaction, but Solo’s eyes stay closed. After that he tucks loose the robe over his sleeping clothes consisting out of a dark, silky shirt and matching bottoms. When he manages to pull it off, he dares to breathe again. It’s ridiculous really. He is KGB’s best. He can undress people without them noticing even if they are looking in a mirror. 

Now that the thick robe is gone he notices that Solo didn’t even put his shirt on properly under it. One button holds the sides together matched with the wrong buttonhole. The fabric falls open easily and leaves the other man’s chest only half covered. A small shiver runs through Solo’s body and leaves goosebumps where the air hits his skin. Illya starts to rub his hands together before he even thinks about buttoning the shirt up. It takes usually three to five minutes to get his fingers warm enough, but he has to be quick. He makes sure not to touch Solo’s skin directly as he closes one button after the other. It goes without a hitch. With a little shifting he gets an arm under Solo’s back, the other one slips under his legs. In a smooth motion Illya stands up with his partner gathered in his arms. Solo is heavy, but nothing Illya can’t manage. Once he’s upright he considers his options. Solo’s room is two stories up and he doubts that his partner would approve of being carried through the hotel. The couch is already dismissed as too small, so that leaves the bed. Illya’s bed. Illya’s half of the bed next to Gaby to be precise. 

His line of thought stops when Solo starts to shift a little. He freezes, but all Solo does is to press his face against Illya’s shoulder and draw in his right wrist, trying to curl around it. Illya remembers Solo deflecting a blow to his face with it, remembers asking Solo after it when they came home, remembers Solo raising an eyebrow at him and questioning Illya’s skills in the field. He should have known better than to take the bait. With the plan in mind to take a closer look at it tomorrow Illya leaves the living room. The bed it is. 

Illya manages to open the door somehow without jostling Solo too much. The light is already off, so he has to make do with the small rays falling in from the living room. It’s not like the bed is hard to miss anyway. He wonders shortly, how they even managed to get it in here. In pieces of course, but in how many? He’s still not sure if this is another peak of capitalism or just Solo’s exorbitant taste.

He’s extra careful now that he won’t wake Gaby as he enters. He never thought he would make use of his stealth training like that. On the empty half of the bed he shoves down the covers with his knee before laying Solo down gently. He arranges his legs on the mattress and pulls the blankets up to the sleeping man’s chin. He reaches up to smooth back an unruly curl when he notices it. Solo’s fingers are closed around the sleeve of his shirt, a little too tight for someone fully asleep. He remembers Gaby doing the same thing and the slight warmth spreading in his chest. The city is different, the person is different, but the warmth is the same. He doesn’t know what to make of it, it’s not something he is used to feel. At least before Rome. He stares at Napoleon’s hand on his sleeve, the way his fingers dig into the fabric, not with force but with something softer. And maybe that’s okay.

“I didn’t want you to leave either.”

Illya’s head shoots up at the sudden sound of a familiar voice. Gaby’s eyes are reflecting the little light there is. She’s on her side, facing them. Illya holds her gaze while the silence fills the space between them. His eyes flicker down to Solo’s hand again. “I’m sorry for waking you.” 

He loosens Solo’s grip and tucks his hand under the covers. The American frowns a little at that, but there’s really not enough light to be sure. Gaby shuffles a little closer to them on the bed and slides a hand over Solo’s blankets to rest on his shoulder. He turns his head slightly in her direction, but stays where he is. Illya can hear the other man’s breath slow down and even out as his slumber deepens. Gaby fishes for her pillow and stays in the middle of the bed without breaking contact. There’s nothing Illya can do for them anymore. He catches himself staring at his partners and turns around to leave them in peace. They’ve earned it. He’s halfway out of the room when he hears Gaby’s not even hushed voice. “Where are you going?”

Illya stops, but keeps his eyes trained straightforward. He’s suddenly really tired, too tired for their usual banter, too tired to guess if there’s a hidden meaning to her words, too tired to figure out what exactly that meaning is. “I go to bed. I take Solo’s room.”

A slight rustle of fabric, then a short silence. 

“I still don’t want you to leave.”

Illya feels his shoulders sag. He hears commotion behind him, but he stays where he is. Gaby’s feet tread light on the carpet, but he can still make them out. There is a small hand on his upper arm, not turning him around, just touching. “Please, come to bed.”

His resolve is already crumbling, when he hears a soft mumble from the bed, the words barely recognizable. Solo’s voice is rough from both the bruising of his throat and sleep. “Where…?”

Instead of answering him Gaby steps in front of Illya and effectively blocks his way out, a small hope in her eyes but no demand, no expectation. Illya swallows against the sudden spike of unease rising in him. This is wrong, isn’t it? His eyes flicker to the bed where Solo is slowly regaining consciousness. In Illya’s bed, right next to Gaby’s spot. This is not normal. He shouldn’t have done it. Sure you get close to your team, but this is different, feels different. He was assigned to work with other agents before, but it was always… different. He can’t find another word for it. Maybe he just doesn’t understand. Maybe there’s something wrong with him. He knows he’s not good at those things. He’s been told often and they were always right. His eyes flicker down at his hands again. He doesn’t know what to do. He knows what he _wants_ to do and what he _should_ do, but not how to align the two. Gaby’s hand on his arm moves down until she holds his hand, loosely intertwining their fingers. Illya can’t bring the words in his throat to come out, so he just squeezes Gaby’s hand slightly in response and looks up again. Gaby smiles softly and reaches up to his face. She guides down his head a little and presses a soft kiss on his temple and his scar. It’s not the kiss he wanted, or at least thought he wanted, but it feels good. 

Maybe this is wrong, but maybe it’s not. 

The smile on his face is still cautious as Gaby lets him up again, but it’s the best he has to offer for now. She keeps his hand in hers, her eyes sparkling in the dark as she turns her head slightly to the bed. “Sleep Napoleon, we’re coming.”

Her response is another murmur, completely unintelligible this time but slightly happier. 

They stay a little longer in the middle of the room, just looking at each other, before Illya goes to turn out the lights in the rest of the suite. When he returns to the bedroom, Gaby is already back under the covers. He changes quickly into his sleeping clothes, somewhat self-conscious although it’s way too dark to see anything really. Gaby claimed her side again and left only the middle of the bed for Illya. He tries to silence his thoughts as he climbs in. The second he’s settled the mattress shifts on both sides of him. He feels the weight of Gaby’s head on his shoulder and bare feet at his calves and the brush of Napoleon’s hand as it settles on his stomach. It’s easy to lay his arm around Gaby and to cover Napoleon’s fingers with his. The warmth is back again, spreading from all the places he feels his partners rest against him. He closes his eyes.

Maybe it’s okay.


End file.
